Pant-pant-pant a Try-bunal of Broken Dreams

To pant – to breathe quickly in short gasps of air.
Pant, pant, pant = Pants – those items of clothing worn on the lower part of the body
Tri = three – try, try, try
The Try-bunal is here. Time to face the consequences.
It has been over an year and half since I accidentally quit smoking. I had no intention of doing so, it just happened; therefore, I just went along with it. Weighing my options, if was going to play this silly no smoking game, a reward needed to be added. Permission was granted to compensate oral stimulation from smoking by loosening the restrictions on eating. The problem arose when I had forgotten to put an expiration date on the offer. This is where the troubles crept into the mix. The old “next week I am going to diet” game started to play out, wearing thin over the months and eventually a year, the only thing that thinned during this time.
Concurrently, there were additional pants being imported by Ron and others, who had traveled to the US. I would order online; they would be my pants mules, carting them back. The closest was filling with jeans and casual slacks: all sized at my pre-quit smoking size. Month by month, the closet had to be reorganized. Nope, this pair of pants no longer fits. The pole on which they hung was like a fabric abacus, but the sums were not balancing. One side was the forbidden zone while the other was still the safety zone. Strangely how the same brand of pants in different colors could fit so very differently. Still, the “next week I am going to diet” game continued with a contestant of one. 
After a year, all casual slacks were now in no man’s land in the closet, while there were only two pairs of jeans still in the daily wear arena. The warm months were a saving grace; shorts could be worn, jeans could be washed and dried within a day. 
My massage therapist and doctor continually tell me my joints were getting stiffer; I needed to get more exercise. I tell them both I exercise everyday that I have to wear pants. First I hop on one leg, trying to get into my pants, then I hop on two legs, trying to get them over my hips. That is followed by my flinging myself onto the bed. While in a prone position, I try raising my legs in the air to redistribute the excess water I am retaining. Women can identify with that water weight. It is not fat, just a real need to pee more. All the while this is going on, I am trying to button the snap on the top on the jeans. With all of the movement, I my lungs race from pant, pant, pant to heavy breathing that any obscene caller would admire. 
After twenty minutes of this, I have had a cardiovascular workout where every muscle group in my body has a thorough stretch, pull squeeze, and thump. Unfortunately, I have also worked up a healthy dose of sweat, so I have to get back in the shower and start again. 
Whether or not I can sleep in each morning depends on whether I can hang around the house is shorts, a baggy sweat suit or if I have to tackle pants. The later means getting up an extra hour. I have to make sure my racing heart and blood pressure are somewhat normalized before leaving the house. Strenuous exercise really does a number on them.
After all of this, I bit the bullet and made a major change. As I walked down the boulevard of broken dreams, I bought a pair of jeans one size larger. The pants abacus is stacked 17-2. Not great odds.
On a positive note, on the way home from jeans store in the mall, I received an SMS. The Pilates class I have been waiting for starts tonight and each Tuesday and Thursday.
Enhanced by Zemanta